


seething

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [34]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:50:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9847223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “I’ve never been to the playoffs before,” Georgie says, in that lull between warm ups and the start of the game. They’ve had their fire up speech, which goes the same every time, and now there’s just the quiet expectation. The nerves.It’s the first thing Georgie’s said to him in days, and Robbie doesn’t think it’s even meant for him, thinks it’s just — saying it. Proving to himself, aloud, that heisthere.Robbie doesn’t say anything in response, and Georgie’s quiet after that.





	

They go to Quebec City two days before the playoffs start, and man, you could hear a fucking pin drop during take-off. Robbie’s sure everyone’s going to go back to whatever the usual is in a few minutes — card games, video games, naps, harassing dudes taking naps, whatever, but for a moment there’s just silence, like when you bow your head in church and listen to the aching sound of a hundred people praying.  


Chaps in particular looks like he might be doing that right now. Robbie doesn’t know if he’s the praying type or anything, but he finds even the guys who don’t believe in God are praying to the hockey gods or whatever right around now. Please let us move forward, please let us keep going, _please_ , we’ve worked so hard for this. Of course, so have fifteen other teams, and fifteen of them aren’t going to get shit to show for it. Robbie just hopes it’s the other guys this year.  


Robbie lets Chaps stay quiet in his head a little longer, even once the noise level’s started to rise, until he starts looking a little pinched, washed out, like silent prayer’s turned into silent agonizing over everything that could go wrong. Robbie knows how that goes, and it’s not something you should let a bro get stuck in, _especially_ when that bro is one of your star players and your team really can’t afford a crisis of confidence from anyone, let him.  


“Breaking Bad?” Robbie asks, nudging David’s shoulder.  


David smiles, a little tight. “Sure,” he says. They get two episodes in before they land, and Chaps looks calmer when they disembark. Robbie pats himself on the back for a job well done for distracting Chaps and keeping himself out of his own head, because there’s nothing pretty to find in there right now.  


*  


Robbie knows a few of the guys with families aren’t super happy about the fact they’re spending an entire week straight in Quebec City, but Robbie thinks it’s a good idea. Means that they have the same hotel room long enough to get a little settled in it, can set down routines before the first game, can self-police one another so no idiot’s partaking too much before they need to be their sharpest. Hell, the wildest thing they do before game one is a mandatory team dinner out in a restaurant’s private room rather than in the hotel, all of them set at one long-ass table, talking over one another and swiping one another’s food and relaxing just enough to feel pumped instead of shit scared. It reminds him of a Lombardi family reunion or something, feels good, and he joins the spirit by swiping one of Matty’s carrots.  


Matty doesn’t protest, just swipes a sprig of broccoli in retaliation, and by the end of dinner Robbie’s pretty sure he ate more of Matty’s veggies than Matty did, and vice versa, which was stupid, because he _specifically_ ordered broccoli. Robbie doesn’t know why, but stolen food just tastes _better_ for some reason. He kind of understands Georgie’s food thieving throughout college. Or now, though he’s sandwiched between Quincy and Frei, and stealing food from either of them is probably a death wish, because Quincy’s Quincy and Robbie’s never met anyone who loves eating more than Frei does.  


Curfew’s early that night, and Matty and Robbie are all snug in their beds watching the news on one of the only English channels they can find. They spend like, ten minutes talking about the playoffs, and the first games just _ended_. It’s not even during a sports part, just the regular news.  


“Dude, your country is obsessed,” Robbie says drowsily.  


“ _You’re_ obsessed,” Matty counters, which, hey, fair enough.  


*  


Game one of the playoffs is always the worst, nerves wise, at least for Robbie. Game sevens are shit, facing elimination is shit, hell, being up 3-1 is shit, because then you’re shit scared you won’t be able to wrap things up. There’s no game that doesn’t eat away at you, but game one is the worst, because you have no fucking clue what’s coming, and the adrenaline’s overwhelming because it’s not cut by exhaustion, not yet.  


“I’ve never been to the playoffs before,” Georgie says, in that lull between warm ups and the start of the game. They’ve had their fire up speech, which goes the same every time, and now there’s just the quiet expectation. The nerves.  


It’s the first thing Georgie’s said to him in days, and Robbie doesn’t think it’s even meant for him, thinks it’s just — saying it. Proving to himself, aloud, that he _is_ there.  


Robbie doesn’t say anything in response, and Georgie’s quiet after that.  


“Here we go, boys,” Cap Q says, when it’s time, stays in the door and hands out fistbumps and ass slaps to the guys going out before him. Gooses half the coaching staff too, so the roster’s giggling like teenage girls when they get on the bench.  


“Holy fuck,” Georgie murmurs, right before puck drop. Sounds kind of like he’s going to be sick.  


Robbie gets hit with a wave of fondness so hard it hurts, can’t look at him.  


Those are the worst moments.  


“Yeah,” Robbie says, aching. “Holy fuck.”  


Kurmazov wins the faceoff. Quincy, on Georgie’s other side, says “here we go, boys,” half under his breath.  


“Here we fucking go,” Robbie agrees.

*

Robbie doesn’t know if anything feels worse than a 1-0 loss. Okay, obviously other losses hurt worse: Robbie would take 1-0 over 10-0 any day, but 1-0 is murder. Forwards feel impotent, D who were on the ice during the only goal obsess over it, fuck knows _Crane_ obsesses over it. It’s not like they didn’t work for it — shots were 30 apiece, Crane practically stood on his head, Robbie blocked three shots himself, and he was far from the only guy throwing himself in front of shot attempts. Even Chaps stepped into one, and that’s not usually his M.O. They played well, the Nordiques played well, and the sole, minuscule little difference was that Faubert was perfect and Crane was _almost_ perfect. 

It sucks, basically.

It’s dimly comforting that Robbie and Georgie weren’t on the ice for the goal against — that was the Not-Mikes, though it wasn’t their fault any more than it was Crane’s, just one of those seeing eye shots at just the right angle to be screened. Comforting that they played well together — Georgie got three shots away, and Robbie fed him two of them, they collapsed in front of Crane’s net in textbook plays, covered one another. They both had a good game, and they were good together, which is impressive considering Georgie’s not even looking him in the eye right now off the ice. On the ice he meets it, easy, but it’s like he’s looking at someone else, anyone else, like the way he’d look at Salonen or Poulin if he was paired with them instead, and it’s fucking infuriating. There’s nothing there. It’s like Robbie’s fucking nothing, and he _isn’t_.

They’re all good little boys before game two — practice, examining game tape for where they could improve, keeping to tight, careful schedules to maximize their productivity and minimize anything that could distract or weaken them. Some of the guys have family here for the games, and they might go grab a bite with them or something instead of eating with the team, but other than that, no one’s going out.

Georgie isn’t either, at least as far as Robbie’s aware. Doubts he would, not during his first playoffs, not with this much on the line, but he’s got his own room and tinder exists. He could order someone up to his like a fucking pizza. Might be a language barrier, but Robbie doubts that would mean much to anyone if they saw his fucking body. Or his face, but Georgie’s not stupid, and his abs alone could get him laid easy.

So maybe Georgie’s balls deep in someone while Matty and Robbie are watching Talladega Nights. Who the fuck knows. Not Robbie. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it, but it keeps creeping into him like poison, wondering what Georgie’s doing, whether he’s had to stop himself from asking Robbie to come to his room or it’s been easy for him like everything else in his fucking life seems to be.  


“Taking a shower,” Robbie says abruptly, and goes to jerk off in the only place he’s guaranteed privacy.

“Good shower?” Matty asks knowingly when Robbie comes out, and Robbie tosses his wet towel at Matty and laughs when Matty squeals like a girl and covers his face like he hasn’t seen Robbie naked a thousand times.

Matty finally drops his hands when Robbie’s changed into fresh underwear, cheeks pink. Robbie’s tempted to pinch them. Apparently he’s turning into his nonna. God forbid.

“The best shower,” Robbie confirms with relish, and laughs at Matty’s utterly scandalized look. “You asked.”

“Keep it between you and your hand, Bardi,” Matty mutters, and Robbie snorts and crawls into bed beside him.

“No,” Matty says, scooting away. “Keep your jizz hands away from me.”

“All down the drain,” Robbie says. “Quit being squeamish.”

“No,” Matty says sulkily, but he quits scooting away and doesn’t even complain when Robbie’s hair leaves drips of water on his t-shirt as they finish the movie.

“Staying in again?” Matty asks sleepily when it’s over and Robbie gets up to go to his own bed.

“Curfew,” Robbie says.

“That an answer?” Matty asks.

“Staying in again,” Robbie says.

“Good,” Matty says.

“Sure,” Robbie says. “Dandy.”

*

They leave Quebec City 1-1 in the series, which is obviously not the ideal, but pretty good considering the Nordiques had the better record _and_ the home-ice advantage. Their goalie’s hot shit, but Crane’s equaling him in the hot shit category, and at the rate this damn series is going, first goal of every game is going to be the game winner. That’s on Crane and Faubert, but it’s also on the D, and Robbie’s already black and blue from shot blocking, has a bitch of a bruise thanks to the post from a desperate moment playing goalie for Crane on a rebound Crane was too far out of the net to handle himself.

Crane grabs his helmet and shakes him by it during the ‘thank your wonderful, beautiful shutout prince’ after the game. “You’re the reason we won,” he says.

“Nah,” Robbie says. “We would have got another. Totally saved your shutout though.”

Crane pushes him away by his visor. “So humble,” he says, but he’s grinning as wide as Robbie is. 

They get right on a plane after the win. The flight back is a giddy, noisy affair at first, but they’re all mostly quiet by the end of the flight, even though it’s less than two hours. A couple of the guys look like they’re two seconds away from falling asleep, and more than a few of them leave their cars and get in with a teammate who looks less dead on their feet, including Robbie after Wheels and Matty insist.

He’s more asleep than awake when Wheels drops him off. “You can sleep at ours,” Matty offers.

“S’fine, I’m up,” Robbie says, and he is, at least for all the steps it takes him to get inside and down to his underwear. Then he’s not up, and that’s true for the next ten hours, since he forgot to set his alarm. He’d feel worse about that, but they have a day off and fuck knows he needs the sleep.

He prods at a particularly green bruise on his thigh in the shower, doesn’t even want to look down at his feet and ankles, which feel like more bruise than skin at this point. Shot blockers are a life-saver, but it’s like bullet proof vests or something: you’re alive, but you’re sure as shit not uninjured, and Robbie’s pretty sure Fillion’s slapshot can be classified as a bullet. 

He jerks off in the shower again, even though it’s not like he’s confined to it at home. Whatever, it’s efficient, and he’s barely doing it for pleasure at all, more to maximize his productivity just like every other aspect of their schedule right now. Tries not to think about anyone in particular, especially Georgie, mostly succeeds, and when his jizz is cycling the drain he puts conditioner in his hair. Probably should have done it before, since it’s the leave-in kind, but he keeps himself busy cataloging the rest of his bruises while he waits.

They were told to keep a low-profile today, not waste any strength before practice tomorrow, game three the next day, and Robbie does that, goes for a short jog but otherwise vegs out on his couch, popping a couple anti-inflammatories when the ache gets to be too much. He keeps checking his phone, not even knowing what he’s looking for, because he’s dissatisfied with the text from Matty about his and Wheels’ veg day, his sister’s congratulations on the win last night, the video of Volkie’s cat kneading Chaps’ jersey and then taking a nap on it he posted, to apparent irritation from some Panthers fans buttheart he isn’t inconsolable about not making the playoffs, Robbie guesses.

It isn’t until day trips to evening then to night and Robbie’s so anxious he feels sick that he realizes he figured Georgie would crack. He thought he’d crack before game one, and after, and before and after game two. Fuck, he _bet_ him he’d crack. Apparently Georgie’s stuck in self-righteous rage so fucking deep that he either isn’t feeling — or can ignore — that tense, tight, ugly feeling living under his skin.

Robbie hovers over his text string with Georgie — well, if _Come over._ and _OK_ can count as a string. It’s pathetic to even be thinking about asking — 

_Come over_ , he writes, then adds a _?_ this time.

Georgie doesn’t answer, not even with a no, and around the time curfew would be hitting and Robbie’s door remains un-knocked on, Robbie goes to bed. He sleeps, eventually, but not before viciously jerking himself off and tossing and turning for at least an hour, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to get this feeling out from under his skin.

*

The next morning he doesn’t feel any less antsy, though having practice to get ready for helps a little. Hockey always does. He gets ready on auto-pilot, finishing too early to head out, and he watches highlights from last night’s games and fidgets until it strikes him that unless Georgie was smuggling people into his room, he handily won the bet Robbie laid out for him, and without even looking like it bothered him.

Robbie goes to the junk drawer in the kitchen to find the checks he generally only uses for his landlord. He neatly prints ‘George Kenneth Dineen’ and ‘1000.00’, signs his name with the kind of flourish he usually saves for autographs. He’s a man of his word and all, and he’s never made a bet he hasn’t followed through on, even if Georgie didn’t exactly _agree_ to the bet. Whatever, it came out of Robbie’s mouth and he’s standing by it. 

He’s one of the first guys to practice, unsurprisingly. Robbie shoves the check into Georgie’s locker before Georgie gets there, makes sure it’s easy to find. He doubts Georgie will cash it, but whatever. Let no one say Robbie’s full of shit.

Robbie can tell during practice that Georgie found it, because he’s not doing that thing he’s been doing for the last week, looking at Robbie like he could be any other guy in the world. No, he’s got a tick in his jaw, his mouth’s a flat line, and he won’t look Robbie in the eye. It’s more like the day after Robbie made the bet than what Robbie wants — he doesn’t know _what_ he wants, but it’s not this — but at least he isn’t fucking pretending. Robbie wonders if betting double or nothing on Georgie lasting past game four would be a waste of two grand or would pay itself back in Georgie’s mouth on his again, the familiarity of Georgie’s body against his own.

Georgie doesn’t say anything to him beyond the necessary during practice, jokingly playfights with Frei during one of the downtimes, as far away from Robbie as he can get without leaving the damn ice. They’re around the same size, but Georgie wrestles Frei down without too much trouble, and Robbie watches him straddle Frei, throw a fake-out punch, their laughter audible even from where Robbie is. He looks away, feeling sick to his stomach. Frei’s got a wife, but who knows what the fuck that means to anyone these days.

Robbie rushes through the post-practice routine, as much to avoid the looks he’s getting from guys as anything. Robbie’s never been able to keep shit off his face, and he guesses today is no exception, because Matty looks worried, and Quincy looks like he might say something, which is the last fucking thing in the world he needs right now.

He’s out before anyone else, speed-walking to the parking lot, then slowing when it’s deserted, no one coming out after him. His fingers brush paper when he grabs for his car keys, and he pulls out the check. Georgie’s scribbled ‘VOID’ over it, so hey, good news: Robbie isn’t going to be out a grand. He’s about to rip it up when he notices the memo spot’s not empty like it used to be, filled with Georgie’s tidy, careful writing, small and cramped. GO FUCK YOURSELF, it says in neat block letters.

Robbie huffs out a laugh, bitter. He doesn’t know if that’s an insult or Georgie just letting him know what his near future’s going to contain, because the way things are looking, he’s sure as shit not getting it from Georgie.

_I’d rather you did it_ , Robbie texts him, wonders if Georgie’s going to respond to that with blaring silence too.

_I’m more likely to punch you so no_ , Georgie’s texted him when Robbie’s gotten home. Robbie wonders where he wrote it — in the locker room, trying to look neutral around the stragglers, in the parking lot, behind the wheel of his car, waiting to get calm enough to drive. He wants, suddenly desperately, to know.

_Come over and I’ll let you throw the first one_ , Robbie texts, and leaves his front door unlocked when he goes inside.


End file.
